


Liminal Spaces

by DelusionsbyBonnie



Category: Battle for London in the Air (Roleplay)
Genre: Beck Is The Worst, Desolation!Cordelia, F/M, Hunt!Andrew, Web!Liam, the magnus archives au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie
Summary: What if all your favorite LITA characters were also avatars of terrifying ineffable horrors?  Would it still be cute if they kissed? (yes, it would)
Relationships: Cordelia French/Andrew O'Rourke
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Andrew sniffed and dragged a sleeve across his face, smearing blood and sweat over his mouth. He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to lift the unconscious form. It was a heavy load, limp and denser than it should have been for all its human shape. He had at least ten minutes before anyone noticed the thing's absence from its post, but there was no sense in wasting any time. He heaved it onto his shoulders and staggered a bit before finding the balance and slipping away into the shadows.

\----

"Well?" Liam didn't turn, his hair haloed in the yellow desk lamp.

"Took care of it," Andrew grunted. "Didn't get caught." 

"Grand. Good job." Liam tapped his pen against the desk, then flipped through the small day planner and scrawled something down. "Anything else?"

Andrew shrugged. "Do you have anything else?"

"Not a thing. Not tonight. Go have a drink."

"Sure. Don't forget to sleep, will you?"

Liam twirled the pen between his fingers. "Sure, grand." 

Andrew shook his head and shut the door gently behind him. His brother would stay up far later than he ought, but he'd be fine regardless. Still, old habits and all that. They hadn't always had...the resources they had now. But Liam was right, as always. A drink sounded perfect.

\----

The acrid scent of smoke hit Andrew's nose the moment he entered the pub, cutting across alcohol and sweat. He followed it to the slouching figure in the corner, flat cap overshadowing a sour expression, and grinned. And he thought the night couldn't get any better.

He grabbed a pint and headed across the room, pulling out a seat across from the scowling man. "Well if it's not Ciaran O'Toole! Been a while since I've seen you about. Burned any orphanages lately?"

"Fuck off, Hunter," O'Toole growled, raising his chin just enough to let the light play across his cheek.

"Jayzus, man, what happened to you?" Andrew stared at the knuckle prints marked deep into the man's face. "How...no, who?"

O'Toole bared yellowed teeth, rubbing at his cheek. The waxy flesh smoothed out under his hand, but the marks stayed a livid red. "Some American bitch. Doesn't deserve the Flame."

"American? The hell is she doing here?" 

"Wouldn't tell you if I knew. I don't like your brother either."

"Oh, c'mon, give me a name at least!" Andrew cajoled. "Won't hurt anything, if she's not deserving."

"French. First name something stupid, frilly girly shit."

"Oh, the girl's got a girl's name, has she?" Andrew grinned, but O'Toole's good will had finally run out.

"Fuck off, Hunter." The air around the table was noticeably warmer now, and Andrew's beer was starting to boil.

"Ah, damn, I can't drink this now!" Andrew pushed back his chair. "Fine, fine, I'm done. Go on, misery-guts."

O'Toole slumped back in his chair, face hidden under the flat cap's brim once more. Andrew shook his head and wandered back toward the bar. Liam would want to know about this new French woman--American woman? Whatever--but it could wait until he'd had his drink.


	2. Chapter 2

“Another acolyte of the Lightless Flame? That’s the last damn thing I need in my town. Damn it!” Liam rubbed his temples, sighing deeply. “You’re certain about this?”

“As certain as I can be. O’Toole’s not lying. I know him well enough to tell that much.”

“Well. We’ll do what we can about that. It’s good news that there’s no love lost between the two of them.”

Andrew snorted. “O’Toole hates everyone. Sounds like this woman just has the bollocks to stand up to him.”

“Mm. Could be as much trouble for us as for him.” Liam twirled the pen between his fingers, staring into the middle distance. “I need to know more about this woman.”

Andrew shrugged. “If I see O’Toole again, I’ll ask him to ask her ‘round for tea.”

The pen stopped. “Please… Andrew, I know you’re joking, but please don’t.”

\---

Andrew pulled his shirttail up to wipe sweat from his face, slowing to a walk and breathing hard from his run. The park was empty at this late hour, isolated pools of light between streetlamps surrounded by an ocean of darkness and faintly rustling leaves. Andrew loved it.

The wind picked up, bringing a welcome cool touch to his face. He breathed in deeply and tensed. Someone was between him and the park gate. He slid off the path into the shadows, shoes silent on the damp grass, and padded forward. The figure stood under the gate archway, long coat shifting gently in the breeze, facing away from the rest of the park. Careless, but perfect. He sniffed again as the figure raised its chin, glancing behind it, and the light fell on a face he recognized.

“Jayzus, Kelly, don’t sneak up on me like that!” he complained, stepping back onto the path.

Kelly spun around, almost dropping his phone. “Christ, O’Rourke, you snuck up on me!”

“I nearly broke your neck, you idiot. Why are you here?”

“I tried to text you. It’s not my fault you don’t check your damn messages. I’ve got news for you, obviously, the kind that can’t go over the phone.”

“Did Liam tell you there’s--”

“A new Flame in town, yes. He was very insistent I make this a top priority. You can tell him we talked about it.”

“Sure, sure.” Andrew rolled his shoulders and began stretching out his legs. “So. News.”

“News! Your work from last night has kicked the anthill for certain. Well done that. They don’t know for sure who did it, and they aren’t happy.”

“Grand! I’d be disappointed if they were.”

“But we don’t have our hands on the key, and your brother is terribly keen on that. He does very much want to destroy it before they do whatever the hell they want to do with it, or before anyone else gets their hands on it.”

“Like the damn Londoners, lock it up in their fucking archive like that keeps it safe or some bullshit,” Andrew grumbled.

Kelly continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “But I know how to find it! Or, at least, I know who does know.” He pulled a business card from his pocket, and Andrew grimaced.

“Sure, that’s got to be right, it stinks bad enough.”

Kelly gave the card a pensive look, shrugged, and handed it over. “Toss it after you’ve got the information, whatever you like. I won’t tell Liam. D’ye need a ride home?”

Andrew shoved it into his shorts pocket and shook his head. “I’ll walk. It’s not far. Cheers, Kelly. Take care of yourself, why don’t you.”

“Cheers, Andrew.” Kelly clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep an ear out for the lady in question.”

“Grand. See you next time then.” Andrew waved carelessly and jogged away. The sooner he could copy down the information on the offending card and dispose of it, the better.


	3. Chapter 3

Andrew stepped off the bus at the nearest stop to the address on the card. It was a rundown part of town--a different rundown part of town from the one he lived in. There was a chip shop on the corner next to a graffiti-embellished, boarded-up set of windows, and he briefly considered stopping in before deciding it could wait. The shop probably had cameras, anyway; the iron bars across the windows would indicate some attention to security.

Andrew headed down the street away from the lights of the shop, searching for addresses or signs in the gathering gloom. The business card had given the name Foster & Banks, a street address, and a phone number that wasn’t in service. There was no indication of what the nature of the business might be, not that it mattered to Andrew. Whatever it was, it was hardly legitimate, and he had no fear of bursting in on some innocent person just going about their job. 

Anyway, there was no mistaking the smell. Andrew’s nose wrinkled. He was definitely going the right direction, he decided, as the faint stench reached him. He turned a corner, the street growing darker and dirtier as he went. It was certainly an area where no one would ask questions, no matter what else was going on. If Liam had known what sort of situation this was, he’d probably have made Andrew take someone for backup, but it was too late for that now. Andrew would take his chances. He rolled his neck and flexed his fists, loosening up his muscles in preparation for a fight. The high humming anticipation was already ringing through his mind, heightening his senses and his reactions. He was ready.

A figure loomed out of a dark alley, the gleam of a knife in its hand. Quicker than thought, Andrew stepped aside, grabbing a fistful of fabric and smashing it into the closest building. The figure struggled, not dropping the knife, and Andrew seized the wrist and bashed the knuckles into the rough brick until the knife clinked onto the pavement. “No,” he growled into the figure’s face. He dropped the handful of clothing and let it stagger back into the darkness, rubbing its neck and gasping. 

Andrew shook his head, heading on down the street and trying to catch the scent once again. What street was this? There hadn’t been a sign at the intersection, and there weren’t numbers on the buildings. He rubbed his nose and sighed. Damn. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. He drummed his fingers against his leg, sweeping his eyes over the buildings before him. Nothing stood out, nothing looked or even felt a little bit unusual, and he was getting impatient. He stalked forward, kicking a bit of trash out of the way with unneeded savagery.

If you’d just get a decent phone with GPS, you could find things, Kelly’s voice teased, and he growled quietly to himself. That wouldn’t help when things didn’t want to be found. But he could find it. He would find it. He needed to find it. He sighed again, and froze. There it was. He backtracked a few steps and peered down the alley. Nothing there, but-- He glanced at the building’s facade. There was a grimy, peeling sign, probably listing the businesses that had been inside. He took the cracked steps up two at a time, squinting at the too-small letters, and smiled grimly. Foster and Banks, suite 3B.

The alley entrance was still a good idea. The heavy double doors were chained shut, but the rusty fire escape was within reach. Andrew jumped and caught the edge of the lowest landing, pulling himself up onto the platform as quietly as he could. No open door there, but he wanted the third floor anyway. The fire escape groaned softly, but it still felt solid. With any luck, no one would hear him.

He tested the third-floor door with no luck. He briefly considered just kicking the door in, but decided against it. Stealth was still his best strategy until he knew how many opponents he might be facing. Three or four he could probably manage, but any more than that would give him some trouble. Liam would be proud of his forethought.

An outcropping line of trim jutted out from the building's bricks, forming a precarious walkway along the wall. Andrew leaned back and squinted at the row of windows, hoping to see an opening. Nothing immediately presented itself, but that didn't mean one of them wasn't unlocked. With the building in such a state of disrepair, it might not be hard to break the latch either. He gingerly stepped out onto the ledge, testing the grip of his heavy workboots. It seemed solid, so he gripped the bricks with his fingers and began gently edging out away from the fire escape. 

The ledge held, and he didn’t slip. No windows were open, but after carefully contorting himself down to peer in through the last window before the corner and seeing no one, he decided that a little vandalism wouldn’t hurt anything. He straightened and fished in his pocket for the brass knuckles, sliding the cool metal onto his hand. Gloves would have been a good idea, but too late for that now. 

The dirty pane just above the window latch shattered with a satisfying noise. He fumbled for a moment, forcing the sash up and dropping down into the abandoned office space. He sucked at the small cuts on his fist, taking inventory of the ugly carpet, the missing ceiling tiles, the single overturned chair. No noise from outside the room, so either he had infiltrated the building undetected or the things awaiting him were too smart or scared to come looking. The door opened silently onto a dim, linoleum-tiled hallway, and a brown placard next to the door read 3B. He spat a quiet curse. Of course it wasn’t going to be that simple. Couldn’t just put things where they were supposed to be, couldn’t just have an easy little jaunt with time left over to get some bloody chips. Damn inconvenient bastards.

Andrew sighed, searching for another scent under the dust and still air. Mildew? No, something else. He flexed his hand under the brass knuckles and threw open a door. Stairs, and a rush of stench fit to choke on. He stifled a gag and propped the door open to give himself a little light and air on his way down.

The stairs grew damp and unpleasantly squishy as he climbed slowly down. He was grateful he couldn’t see what he might be stepping on, and even though the moisture made his skin crawl, he kept a hand against the wall to steady himself against the treacherous footing. Not the hand with open cuts, of course; he wasn’t so much of a fool. By the basement landing, the floor felt like it was covered in three inches of moss and stank like a bloated corpse. He was going to have to burn these clothes.

The soft floor did serve to muffle his steel toe workboots, at least. There was a diamond-shaped window near the top of the basement door, casting a sickly yellow glow on the opposite wall. Andrew ducked under the light, trying to make anything out through the smeared glass. Movement, rhythmic thumping, unnaturally-colored light, no voices. This would be ugly.

He slipped the other set of brass knuckles onto his other hand and threw the door open. It stuck halfway, jamming itself into whatever buildup coated the floor with a squelch. That didn’t stop him from barreling through it and driving his shoulder directly into the thing holding the butcher’s cleaver. It gave way like a wet sandbag, flailing with the knife as it fell. Andrew grabbed desperately for the wrist, his other hand scrabbling for a throat, eyes, any weak point. The heavy blade jerked away and up, glancing off his forehead as he swore at the thing beneath him. It seized him by the ear as his fingers found what might be a trachea and dug in. He dropped into what should have been a punishing headbutt if the head wasn’t made out of the same wet-sandbag consistency as the rest of it as his fingers broke through the skin into something wet and pulpy. He straightened up, yanking, pulling out something as it made the first sound he’d heard, not a cry at all, just a sort of fleshy whistling through the hole in its ruined neck. It was still fighting.

He threw himself to the side as it swung the cleaver at him again, rolling to his feet and bringing the outsides of his forearms up defensively. Liam would have words for him after this. The thing raised itself from the floor heavily, leaking from the spot where its windpipe should have been. It was damned hard to fight something that didn’t have the traditional weak spots. Andrew dodged the cleaver again, ducking inside its reach to knock it to the ground again. He drove a knee into the middle of the mass, lashing out with a metal-clad fist at its knife hand. Its grip loosened as he struck again, until he finally knocked the cleaver from its grasp. It skittered across the floor, and both of them lunged for it, clawing at the filthy ground desperately. 

Andrew’s fingers touched it first, and he rolled quickly, kicking its hands off him and using the momentum to smash the heavy blade into its head. It split like a ripe melon, but he kept hacking until he was sure it was still. He pulled himself to his feet, adrenaline level beginning to drop, and tucked the cleaver into an inside pocket of his jacket.

“Oh!”

He spun around, almost slipping on the slick floor, fists raised. A woman stood in the doorway, luminescent against the dark stairwell, one hand on a hip. “This is a surprise.”

“What the hell?” Andrew croaked.

“Time to talk outside, I think. This place reeks.” She turned with an almost lazy gesture, and the dormant furnace erupted with a roar.

Andrew stumbled up the steps after her, out through the front doors which had most certainly been locked earlier. Now they lay drunkenly in the foyer, bolts and hinges reduced to dribbles of melted metal. The woman strode across them like they were a red carpet. Something exploded underneath the building, rattling windows and making Andrew jump as they emerged into the brisk night air. She crossed the street and stopped in the mouth of a nearby alley, turning to smile at the flames licking the ground floor windows.

“Aah, that’s better, don’t you think? You are a mess. Who are you, anyway?”

Though the scent of rot still clung to his clothes, the smoke and hot metal rolling off her skin were almost overwhelming now. He dragged a sleeve across his forehead, steadying his breathing. “Name’s O’Rourke. Who the fuck are you?”

She smiled mischievously, the fire reflecting copper in her hair. “A pleasure I’m sure, Mr O’Rourke. I’m Cordelia French.”


	4. Chapter 4

Andrew leaned weakly against the wall. “Sorry, French?”

“Yes, that is what I said. Did the explosion damage your hearing? That high-pitched ringing sound should fade soon.”

“No, I heard you, I just--” Should he tell her? Ah, what the hell, she probably already knew. “I ran into Ciaran O’Toole a few days ago. He mentioned you.”

“Oh, that unpleasant little man. You’re not friends with him, are you?”

“No, I wouldn’t say friends.” Andrew rubbed his face. “Just… see him around, you know?”

“Yes.” She was staring at him. Why was she staring at him? “Your hand looks terrible.”

“What? Oh.” He flexed his right hand gently, examining the cuts from the broken window. “Blood’s not supposed to be that color.”

“Give me that.” She grabbed his hand, tilting it toward the firelight. “Mm, this might hurt.” She pressed her hand against his knuckles. Her skin was warm, and then before he could pull away, it was burning hot, sweat and blood sizzling against her palm as his skin seared. She let go, and he pulled back, cursing. “No, no no no, don’t put it in your mouth! Just… bandage that up when you get, er, home.”

He bit his lip, surveying the hand-shaped patch of shiny skin. “What’d you have to do that for?”

“Cauterizing the wound, Mr O’Rourke. I don’t think you particularly want anything from that basement in your body. On that note, you should probably burn those clothes.” She patted his chest gingerly, and his breath caught in his throat. “You won’t be getting those stains out.”

“Oh. Sure.” Andrew stared down at his ruined jacket, and then back up at Cordelia. “So what were you doing here?”

“I’m not going to tell you that! Good night, Mr O’Rourke.” She tossed him a wave over her shoulder, striding away into the night.

He watched her go for a moment, head spinning from the heat and the smells of burning. Hell of a woman. He shrugged off his jacket, turning it wrong-side out to hide the worst of the stains, and swore again. The cleaver was gone. Hell of a woman indeed. 

\---

Andrew collapsed into his bed, his head aching and burned hand throbbing. Liam was furious, of course, although Andrew couldn’t have said whether he was angrier at his brother or at this strange woman. The one saving grace was that the cleaver was just a knife, not Kelly’s key, so Cordelia French’s laughing dark eyes and light fingers had not wrecked any plans. And even Liam had to admit that thanks to her dramatic arson, any blame would be pinned on the Lightless Flame rather than the true culprits.

He sighed, rolling onto his back and propping his hand on the couch cushion beside him. It hurt less when elevated, and he only had one pillow. The burn was coated in salve and clumsily swathed in bandages, the best job he could do after scrubbing himself pink in the shower and carefully wrapping his clothes in two layers of trash bags to dispose of in the morning. It was too much trouble to deal with tonight, especially after a dressing-down from his brother. He hadn’t felt this bone-tired in years.

Despite the pain and the nagging thoughts, he was able to fall asleep almost instantly. It could have been minutes or hours later when he woke up, but the room was still dark and quiet. He rolled over, stretching his arm over his head and closing his eyes again, but then he snapped to alertness, listening intently to the soft scratching that must have woken him up in the first place. He silently stood and padded into his living room, pressing his back to the wall near the door. Who the hell was breaking into his flat by picking the lock? If anyone wanted to steal from him, they’d be more likely to smash and grab, not that he owned anything worth taking.

The latch clicked, and the door slowly eased open. A tall, slim shadow slid inside, pulling something from its pocket as it scanned the room. Andrew gritted his teeth, knowing this was about to hurt, and tackled the figure to the ground. The man let out a startled cry, flailing his gun up wildly and cracking Andrew in the head. Andrew spat a curse and grappled for the gun arm, wrenching the pistol out of the man’s hand and tossing it away.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my fucking house?” he hissed.

“Release me, vile icon of darkness!” The man’s voice was absurdly posh, but strained in a way that made the accent sound genuine. He struggled, and Andrew cuffed the back of his head.

“Answer the fucking question before I snap your neck!”

“I’m not afraid of you, Hunter!”

“Then you’re a fucking idiot.” Andrew sat up, pressing a knee into the man’s back and slowly pulling his arm backward. “You’ve got five seconds before I pop this out of joint.”

The man held out for two seconds before trying to squirm away. “Fine! Stop! My name is Byron, and I’m… er, trying to rob your house.”

Andrew increased the pressure. “Like hell.”

“Ow! I’m looking for someone, a woman, please!”

Andrew released his arm and bent close to the man’s ear. “All right. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to let you up and turn on the light. You’re going to put your hands on your head and answer all my questions. Understand?” At the man’s nod, Andrew stood and flipped on the light, trying not to favor his bandaged hand too much.

The man sat up slowly, straightening his dark, high-collared coat before placing his hands on his head. “Are you going to force me to sit on the floor while you interrogate me?”

“Seems like that ought to be the least of your worries.” But Andrew grabbed a fistful of the man’s collar and pushed him up onto the couch. “Now. Let’s start over. Who are you and why are you breaking into my fucking house?”

The man’s long, pale face arranged itself into a semblance of dignity. “I told you the truth. I’m looking for a woman.”

“Name?”

“Faye--”

“Your name, gobshite.”

The man hesitated for a moment, then raised his chin proudly. “Lord Thaddeus Beck.” He sagged slightly when Andrew did not seem impressed. “I’m looking for Faye Abinall.”

“Never heard of her.” Andrew picked up the pistol from the floor, inspecting it briefly. “Jayzus, this is filthy. Why break into my house then?”

“I know she’s in this city. I tracked her here, and I know the two of you committed arson earlier tonight.” Beck was clearly trying to keep up a brave facade, but it seemed that he wasn’t used to confronting people who didn’t value his title.

“Dunno what you’re talking about. How did you get to my flat?”

“I followed you,” he said proudly.

“Bullshit.”

“I… asked questions. The drunk you assaulted in the alley, the young lady in the chip shop--you made quite the impression. You looked a fright.”

Andrew heaved a sigh. “It’s too late for this. Look here. It’s the middle of the night and you’re lucky I didn’t snap your neck when you walked in the door. Now, I’m going to keep your piece of shit peashooter, and you’re going to fuck right off back to where you came from and leave me alone.”

Beck stood, dropping his hands. “Lying will profit you nothing, servant of evil!”

“Oh, for the love of--” Andrew flicked the gun’s safety on, and Beck bolted like a frightened deer, the front door swinging gently in his wake. Andrew set the pistol gently on the table and bolted the door behind him, then wedged a chair under the knob. Madman or no, Andrew was going to finish his night’s sleep if it was the last thing he did.


End file.
